


Yours

by margaerystark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:19:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/margaerystark/pseuds/margaerystark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Catelyn remembered King Renly’s court, as she had seen it at Bitterbridge. A thousand golden roses streaming in the wind, Queen Margaery’s shy smile and soft words, her brother the Knight of Flowers with the bloody linen around his temples. If you had to fall into a woman’s arms, my son, why couldn’t they have been Margaery Tyrell’s? The wealth and power of Highgarden could have made all the difference in the fighting yet to come. And perhaps Grey Wind would have liked the smell of her as well.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Her life begins the day she marries Renly Baratheon, or so that’s what she’s meant to think. It is not difficult to smile on such an occasion, not when she is surrounded by good company and family.

The wedding is beautiful. Flowers are woven into her long hair, and the gown she wears dips low between her breasts where she wears a silver chain with a rose pendent attached to it. Her mother and father and brothers tell her she’s beautiful, but never Renly.

He dances with her during the feast, his breath heavy on her neck. She can smell the wine he’s been drinking and his steps are clumsy and awkward as he tries to lead her. “I’m going to fuck your brother so hard tonight,” he whispers in her ear, giving a laugh.

She looks over at Loras, his mouth drawn across his face as he watches them, his eyes full of jealousy. “ _Oh, if only you knew,”_ she thinks as Renly spins her around, his boots treading on the train of her dress.

It does not matter anyhow. When the men undress her during the bedding, they eagerly rip the fabric, and she knows she’ll never be wearing her wedding gown again. Their fingers find her skin far too often as they slip off her chemise underneath and urge her into her husband’s temporary bedroom.

Renly is waiting for her on the bed naked, his limbs sprawled out across the blankets, and she casts her eyes towards anything but him as she walks forward.

“Should we try to make you an heir tonight?” she asks softly, her cheeks flushing red.

“No, not tonight,” he replies, his words slurred as he waves his hand, dismissing her. She looks up at him, and sees the bulge between his legs and realizes her brother must have participated in the bedding. “I’m awaiting Loras.”

“Oh.” She does not know what she was expecting.

She considers herself lucky that the men who undressed her have gone already as she leaves the room, running for her own.

She can hear her husband and her brother from her chambers. She places a pillow over her head and burrows her face into her blankets, but she does not sleep that night.

❀

Wherever Renly and Loras go, she goes. They make camp in the Stormlands after rallying supporters. Their days are full of sparring and cheering and laughter, their nights of wine and feasting. There is little talk of war, and it’s easy to brush of threats when they are not imminent. Stannis and the Lannisters and the Starks seem so far away, not even tangible… until the Young Wolf himself shows up to propose an allegiance.

The warm wind whips her hair in her eyes as she looks on towards the party approaching her and Renly. She sweeps her curls behind her ears as Robb Stark dismounts his horse and takes of his helmet. From afar she can see he is handsome, kissed by fire, not at all how she’d expect a Stark to look, but she thinks he must have his mother’s colouring.

He steps forward, wiping sweat from his brow and giving them both a nod of courtesy. Though nearly every inch of him is covered, she can tell that he is battered and bruised and has already had much more experience in battle than her husband. Renly would be foolish not to ally with such a capable fighter.

He’s brazen with his words, sharp-tongued and to the point. He wants them to join forces with him against the Lannisters. He wants Renly to put aside his feud with Stannis and lay siege on King’s Landing. It’s only when he is finished that her husband speaks.

“You might shed your cloak, good ser, as I’m sure you will be staying with us for quite some time,” Renly suggests jovially, giving the Stark a smile. “I will address the matter of my brother later, but for now we welcome you into our midst.” He turns to their servants and orders that they set up tents for their new companions.

❀

They hold their first true war meeting that night, Robb’s presence seeming to stir up fear in those who didn’t believe the tales of his direwolf riding into battle with him or him taking the Kingslayer prisoner.

“Can I sit in?” she asks as she sees the group of men making their way towards the planning tent. She thinks it’s time the maps and strategic books her brother Willas gifted her husband with should be put to use.

“What do you know of war, Margaery?” Renly gives a hearty laugh, shaking his head. He still looks handsome even when he’s mocking her, and she hates it.

“She should be allowed to come if she so pleases. I hear your lady wife knows much of politics and the men we will be up against. I’d value her input,” Robb speaks up, a crease in his brow.

A look of surprise registers on Renly’s face, and he looks between her and his new ally before shrugging his shoulders. “If you insist, my lord,” he says, stepping into the tent.

“Your grace,” she corrects for him, giving Robb a soft smile. It’s the first time she’s been able to talk with him, the first time she’s had the opportunity. “He’s not used to calling anyone but himself king,” she continues. “But the North will be yours when this is over, and you will be a king in your own right.”

The serious expression disappears from his face, his features softening as he returns her smile. “No need to apologize. We all forget our courtesies sometimes,” he replies, reaching for the tent flap to hold it open for her.

She gives him a grateful nod and steps inside to join the men under her husband and Robb’s command.

They talk of taking King’s Landing, of agreements and betrayals, but every time Stannis is mentioned, Renly quickly averts the topic. She does not speak, though Robb’s plan to have their troops ally with others seems foolproof. He knows what works on the battlefield, but Renly won’t have his pride wounded or the throne taken from him, and she was told that she would be queen at the end of this war.

“I don’t know much of politics, but perhaps we could try and negotiate something with Stannis?” Robb suggests, looking frustrated. “Though the last time I asked for conciliation, I ended up betrothed to a lady I have still not yet met… What do you think, Lady Margaery?” he asks, turning to her and taking her off guard. She did not want to think about why her stomach twisted in knots at the mention of his betrothal. “You know more about these things than I do.”

She opens her mouth, but is interrupted before she can speak.

“That’s enough talk of war. I’ve worked up an appetite, and I’d already planned a feast in honour of our alliance,” Renly remarks, nodding his head at the other man. “So if you’d be so kind as to join me in say… half an hour’s time, we’ll have supper all ready for you. The hart in the Stormlands is superior to any other kingdom.”

She gives Robb an apologetic look as she follows her husband, taking only a few steps outside before he rounds on her.

“Go get ready, Margaery,” he tells her. “You want to look good for _him_ , don’t you?” He raises his eyebrows at her before he marches away and leaves her standing there. She takes in a deep breath and holds it before deciding not to go after him.

She dresses in a grey gown just to spite him, the material dipping low over her chest. She picks a necklace with a silver chain and a rose carved from white marble and fastens that around her neck as well.

When she arrives at the table for supper, there are many eyes on her, but none of them belong to Robb. She sits by Renly, looping her arm through his. He grants her a kiss on the temple before his interest is occupied by Loras once more. She sighs, taking a sip from her wine glass and staring idly at the entrance of the massive tent.

Robb arrives nearly ten minutes late, dressed in a smart, dark grey jerkin and black breeches, his face scrubbed clean. She feels her heart beat in her chest when he spots her and makes for her straight away.

“You look beautiful, my lady,” he tells her as he takes a seat.

She coughs, choking on her drink slightly at a compliment that even her husband had not bestowed upon her tonight. “Thank you, your grace,” she says after she recovers, feeling her cheeks burn red. She glances to her right but Renly is engaged in a conversation with Loras, laughing heartily and taking a sip from his own glass. She turns back to Robb then, giving him a small smile. “You’re very kind. Though I’m sure you have not seen many women since this war started.”

“None like you, no,” he replies, quickly clearing his throat and becoming very interested in the food on his plate instead of her.

“I’ve not seen many men like you, your grace. Not even before the war began,” she remarks, tilting her head to meet his gaze. “Thank you for letting me stay during the meeting today. I know little of battle strategies and tactics, but it will be good for me to learn.”

He looks back up at her. “There’s no need to thank me. You had every right to be there.”

She purses her lips, trying to hide her growing smile. “It must be very different in the North.”

“It is,” he says, looking pointedly at her, causing her to blush even more.

She does not know when it happens, but somehow his chair ends up closer to hers by the end of the feast, so close she can smell his earthy scent and feel his breath on her skin. There is a rare second where no talking occurs between them, but then moments later he or she is filling the silence with words and laughs. She thinks of kissing him, of what it would be like to press her lips to his and taste wine on his tongue. But a single touch from Renly sends her thoughts back to reality, and she stands with him when he decides he is done eating and making conversation.

“Goodnight, your grace,” she offers Robb, her voice low and trailing like a shadow as she takes her leave and he barely gets the chance to respond.

“Goodnight, Lady Margaery,” she thinks she hears, but she and Renly are nearly outside by then.

They’re almost to her husband’s tent when he spins around, laughing. “Why are you following me?” he asks, walking backwards as she continues on.

“Your men think it’s strange we don’t share a tent,” she tells him, and he shakes his head, grabbing her hands and pulling her along with him.

“The Others can take my men,” he says, causing her brow to furrow.

“You shouldn’t say that. You wouldn’t have a chance at winning this war if it wasn’t for them.”

He pulls her inside, away from the wandering eyes of people at the camp, and she takes a seat on his bed with him. She runs her tongue along her bottom row of teeth before leaning in and pressing a forceful kiss to his lips. He withdraws almost immediately, giving her an incredulous look.

“Why…?” he drops her hands, his face scrunched in distaste.

“You’re my _husband_.” She thinks of Robb and his smile, his red curls and soft voice. She thinks that if she can pretend Renly is him then Renly should be able to pretend she is Loras. “Can you just _try,_ please?” she urges. “I told you, if my brother could be of help-”

“Margaery, stop,” he interrupts forcefully, shaking his head. “Why can’t you… be happy with the way things are? We have allied with the North. We will win this war. And I will sit on the Iron Throne at the end of this, and you will be a true queen.”

“A queen who will be greatly reprimanded and reviled if she cannot give the kingdom an heir.”

“We can try once I have taken King’s Landing and we occupy the Red Keep, alright, my love?”

He leans in to kiss her cheek, but she turns her chin away, her jaw set. “Do not call me that,” she says reproachfully, gathering the skirts of her dress in her hand and standing from his bed. “It’s a term that should be reserved for Loras only.”

“Margaery-”

“Spare me the apology. I’m leaving.” She tried so very hard to be patient with him, but it has not worked. He ignored her during the entire feast and she is certain others had taken notice. He does not follow her out of the tent either, and she brushes away the angry tears that form in her eyes as she walks towards her own tent. She knew from the beginning that he had eyes for her brother only, but she is not upset that he holds no affection towards her; she is troubled that he is neglecting his duties as a husband and king.

She barely hears someone calling to her in her flustered state, but she stops when Robb’s voice echoes in the darkness.

“My lady, are you alright?” he asks, and she spins around to look at him.

“I am fine,” she says, forcing a small smile but shivering as well.

“Are you cold?”

“A little, but I was just-“

“Hold on,” he tells her, ducking into his tent and returning seconds later with one of his cloaks. “Here,” he offers it to her, and her eyes go wide as she takes it from him.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, slipping it around her shoulders. It smells like him, and she decides she likes it very much.

“Don’t bother returning it to me. I have many of its kind.”

“Your compassion is unparalleled, your grace. I see why so many have followed you into battle. The Frey girl will be very lucky to have you.”

He blinks before lowering his gaze, looking riddled with guilt. “Yes, well, goodnight, my lady,” he mumbles, bowing his head slightly and slipping back into his tent.

She shivers once more, even with the cloak wrapped tightly around her as she walks away. She does not know whether this alliance with Robb Stark will be the best or worst decision Renly has ever made.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the feedback I've received so far. It's always so nice to work on something that I know is appreciated. Please feel free to comment if you have the time. I love hearing from you!

The Lannisters send a force to reckon with. The armies of the Reach and the Stormlands and the North have far more in number, but Robb believes their enemies are trying to dwindle that number and make them weaker before their attack on King’s Landing.

The night before they’re meant to attack, she decides to pay a visit to her husband. After all, what sort of wife would she be if she did not offer him some comfort before he’s meant to go into battle? What sort of queen would she be if she did not try at least one more time to give him an heir?

She finds him collapsed on his bed, his shirt off and his breeches unbuckled. She gives a heavy sigh, walking over to take a seat next to him.

“Margaery?” he questions, rubbing his eyes before he opens them. There’s the stench of ale in the air and something else she can’t place.

“You’re drunk,” she says softly while he twists a strand of her hair around his finger and gives a low chuckle.

“We’re going off to battle tomorrow. Would you deprive me of one a last night of indulgence? What is it that your wolf called me? …A summer knight? He’s right, you know. I could die tomorrow, my queen.”

“You reek of my brother.” She wrinkles her nose and this only prompts him to laugh more.

“You look so much like him when you do that,” he remarks, tugging gently on her earlobe, much like an older sibling would.

“Yes. It’s unfortunate you can’t put a child in _him_.”

Renly chortles then, dropping his hand from her hair and placing it over his face. “He’d be a horrible mother,” he exclaims, his voice breaking. He falls silent for a few seconds before declaring, “You should lay with the King of the North tonight. It might be your last chance. He could die tomorrow too.”

“He never dies,” she retorts, her face flushing as red as her husband’s.

“Still, he would enjoy something like that before shipping out. And he would make you feel good… better than I ever could.”

 _It was never about feeling good,_ she thinks to herself. _It was about you gaining an heir before your death._ She frowns down at him. “Are you giving me permission?”

He nods his head. “Go ahead. I won’t stop you.”

“Do you want me gone so that you can have my brother again?”

He laughs again, and that is all the answer she needs. She stands from the bed, slipping on the cloak that Robb gave her and marching over to his tent.

The only one standing guard is his direwolf, and Grey Wind does not stir when she approaches. She fishes some dried venison from her pocket and tosses it to him, and he catches it in his mouth. He stands, stretching and then nudging her hand. She drops to her knees and scratches behind his ear. “What am I doing here?” she asks the wolf. Before she can stand, she hears the rustle of fabric and a figure appears at the entrance of the king’s tent.

“Is everything alri-” He stops short as he sees her. “Lady Margaery…” His eyes turn to his wolf then. “He likes you.” He seems surprised.

“I gave him some dried meat,” she admits with a small smile, ruffling the fur at Grey Wind’s neck. “He warmed to me after that.”

“A Lannister could give him a whole boar to feast on, and I’m certain he would just as soon tear their throat out. I haven’t seen him this docile in a long while. What are… Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” Grey Wind presses his snout to her cheek, and she laughs, the noise piercing the silent night air. “He is so remarkable. You’re very fortunate to have found him.”

“Aye, that I am,” he says, still looking astounded that his wolf is so tame with her. “Might you come inside? I’d enjoy your company before I turn in.”

She hesitates, wanting to accept his invitation but certain she will end up regretting the decision to do so, not for her own sake but for his. She grows heated when she remembers Renly’s words. “I’m sorry, but I should be heading to bed, your grace.”

“Oh.” His face falls. “Goodnight then, my lady.”

“But I thought I might wish you the best,” she says quickly, not wanting to upset him. “I will pray for your safety tomorrow. I hope the gods will hear me without a sept. But you keep to the old ways, do you not?”

He nods his head, brightening considerably. “I was often told my gods don’t have ears where there are no weirwoods, but I’d like to believe otherwise. If they cannot keep me safe then I pray your gods will.”

She smiles, placing a hand on his arm. “You have much to fight for, more so than those who desire the throne or the crown, though I’m sure you’d wear it well.” He looks troubled, opening his mouth as if to speak, but she does not give him the chance. “I know that’s not what you want. You want your sisters. You want the North. Don’t worry. You will have all of that someday soon. Goodnight, your grace.”

She turns on her heel and makes her way to her tent, lying down on her bed. Robb Stark will take the North and marry his Frey, and Renly will sit on the Iron Throne, drinking his wine and fucking her brother. And, maybe, if he’s lucky, one day he will be able to turn her around and bend her over and put a child in her, and the Baratheon line will continue.

She feels a tear run down her cheek, and she swipes at it angrily, sitting up in alarm when the flaps of her tent begin to move. Her fear only lasts a few seconds before she makes out Grey Wind’s figure.

He pads over to her, and she sees a ripped piece of parchment attached to the rope around his neck. She takes it in her hands, reading the scribbled handwriting. _If our last battle is tomorrow then I wish for him to spend the night with you. Sleep well, my lady. –Robb_

Her eyes fill with tears again. She shifts to make room and pats the space beside her, and Grey Wind barely has to jump to get up on the bed. He lies down and she wraps her arms around his neck, burying her face in his fur. Sleep comes easy then.

❀

She awakes to sunlight, to the sight of her husband hovering her with a smirk on his face.

“Gods, when I told you to lay with the Young Wolf this is not exactly what I had in mind,” he remarks, laughing at his own jest.

Grey Wind bears his teeth, snapping at the man, but he stops when she places a hand on his head. “Shut up,” she tells her husband, sounding more childish than she wishes.

“I hope you save your prayers for me today. As you said, Robb won’t need them. He never dies.”

“There’s no sept here,” she tells him, and he only laughs again.

“The gods take too much credit for what men do, anyhow…” He trails off, looking down at the ground and shifting the helmet he’s holding further up on his hip. “Goodbye, Margaery,” he says eventually.

She purses her lips together before standing and wrapping her arms around him in an embrace. “I will see you later, Renly.”

Further farewells are made in the few hours of preparation before battle. She kisses Loras and Garlan on the cheek and ruffles her youngest brother’s hair slightly, making him smile. He seems far less worried than his king, joking with his fellow men about how flowers and stags will take down lions.

She does not see Robb among them, and so she goes to find him, Grey Wind practically leading her towards his tent. He’s being dressed by his squire in armor, seeming much larger in his padded shirt.

He looks surprised to see her and even more so when steps forward and smiles at his squire. “Allow me,” she offers, and the young man steps back and dips out of the tent so that she can take his place.

He does not ask her if she knows what she’s doing, a small smile on his face as she talks to him while she helps him with his chainmail. “I used to do this for my brothers all of the time. They wouldn’t trust anyone but me when I grew old and strong enough to lift everything.”

She bends down to attach his greaves to either leg and then reaches for his breast and back plate, giving a small giggle as he sucks in his stomach to help her get them on. “Is that really necessary?” she asks, quirking a brow. “It’s not as if I’m clothing a puff fish.”

He lets out the breath he was holding and laughs, shaking his head at her. “What in seven kingdoms is a puff fish, my lady?”

She glances at him before reaching for one of his gauntlets and then taking his hand as she slides it over his fingers. “Sometimes I forget you’re from the North. I’ll just have to show you one day, won’t I? When the war is over you can make a visit to the sea with me.”

“I’d like that,” he says, and her hand lingers in his bare one before she slips on his other gauntlet.

“Be safe today. I’m holding you to your word.” She looks up at him through her lashes, smiling still. “You wouldn’t want to die not knowing what a puff fish looked like.”

“That would be a shame,” he replies softly.

A bout of silence falls between them before she finally lets go of his hand and moves to leave his tent. She almost wishes him luck, but then she realizes he will not need it. “I will see you soon, your grace,” she says quietly. She closes her eyes and remembers his face, his smile and curls and eyes, and then she goes.

She prays throughout the day, to the old or new gods, she is not sure. The hours pass slowly, the silence unnerving and unnatural. She supposes she never truly knew war until now, and she gives an anxious laugh when Robb’s voice floods her head with warnings of winter coming.

She’s alone until nightfall when a deafening roar seems to rise from out of the ground, the camp suddenly boisterous and lively once more.

Sobs and shouts can be heard from her tent, and she runs outside, joining the chaos and pushing her way through the throng of people towards the front. She sees the horses, the armored and mud-stained men, some of them drenched in red as well.

Her eyes search for her brothers, but her heart plummets when they’re met with the view of another. Renly looks to be in a peaceful sleep, his arms folded over his chest, a gash through his chest. “ _No_ ,” she whispers, giving a small whimper as tears fall from her eyes and she sees he isn’t breathing.

As the men that are moving him step forward, she catches a glimpse of the other fallen soldiers, her body going cold at the familiar sight of Tyrell armor.

She drops to her knees when she sees Loras stretched out on a wooden board, his perfect pale face marred with wounds, his beautiful golden-brown hair dampened with blood. Her handmaiden moves to her side but she pushes her away, her fists and her face meeting the earth as she sobs, choking on air.

“Loras!” she screams “No! _No!”_ She stands then, rushing to her brother and smoothing the hair out of his lifeless eyes. “Brother, darling brother, come back. Come back to me.”

One of the men from the parade tries to lead her away, but she fights him with strength she did not know she had. “Take my place,” she hears a voice speak, and the man leaves her, only to be replaced by another. She looks up, and through her blurry vision she can see Robb Stark. Robb Stark, still alive and seemingly unharmed. While Renly and Loras lay dead on blood-stained boards.

She tries to shove past him, but he is steadfast, holding her in place as his men move the bodies to a suitable place. He leads her by the arm to her tent as she resists him, desperate to be by her brother’s side. Robb won’t let her go, not until he knows she won’t run.

He lets her beat on his armored chest until her hands are sore, until she can’t fight any longer and cries herself to sleep with him by her side.

❀

 _Don’t take his bones to Highgarden_ , she tells them. _He’ll want to be buried with his king._

And so he is, beneath a flowering tree at Storm’s End. They take the journey the very next day. Though the fight with the Lannisters was won, she feels as though she has lost everything.

She can hear the crashing of waves against the cliff side, the wind blowing her skirts about her ankles as the party that buried the king and Ser Loras leave her there to grieve on her own... A husband and a brother dead.

She stands at their gravesite, taking shallow breaths in through her mouth. She wants to be sick, but she has not eaten since the battle, and so all she does is choke up some of the wine and water that was sloshing about in her empty stomach. She thinks herself foolish for worrying of Renly putting an heir in her or winning battles or the Iron Throne. What is all of that worth if everyone she loves dies?

When she finally picks herself up and makes to leave, she realizes she is not alone, the figure of a man standing a ways from the tree where she is. She furrows her brow, wishing she was angrier with him. He brought this on her. He brought war to the knights of summer who would have sat idly around had he not proposed an alliance. But his eyes are so full of pain and guilt that all she can do is try to brush past him on her way back to her horse.

Robb takes her by the elbow and swings her round, and she lets out a small, muffled noise as her face hits his chest. And then his arms are around her, strong and hugging her close with what seems like all of his might, as if he can keep her from falling apart. Her breath is ragged as she returns his embrace, the fabric of his shirt bunching under her fingers when she clings to him and begins to sob.

“I’m sorry.” His head drops to rest on top of hers and one of his hands runs over her hair. “I’m so sorry, my lady.”

She shakes her head and lets herself cry.

❀

Their party decides to stay at Storm’s End for a few weeks more, the castle providing a much better shelter than their tents as injured men are cared for and those under Robb’s command continue to make plans for the siege on King’s Landing. Everything seems to be up in the air because of Renly’s death.

Her grief and pain comes and goes in bouts, but she finds hope with Robb’s help. Walks in the afternoon when they are both free become a habit of theirs. They always manage to set aside time for each other, away from the rest of the people holed up at Storm’s End.

“How did Loras die?” she asks him one day as they walk the winding path towards the fields.

He looks at her with wide eyes but answers anyway. “He jumped in front of Renly and took a blow that was meant for the king. He would have lived had he not valued another’s life over his… I’m sorry, my lady. That is not very reassuring.”

“You should call me Margaery when no one else is around, your grace,” she says softly before continuing. “You have no need to apologize. Not for telling me the truth.”

“You mustn’t call me anything but Robb, no matter the circumstance,” he counters, giving her the softest of smiles. “Your brother was brave. He was a good man. When Renly watched him die he… there was a sort of madness in him. He did not care who he was cutting through, so long as you came near him you were dead. But he did not watch himself, and he was struck down as well.”

She nods her head, a few tears slipping down her face at the action. He reaches over and wipes at her tears with his thumb. Heat erupts over her cheeks at his tender gesture, and his eyes fall to the ground when he pulls away. “There is a verse the bards used to sing in Highgarden…” she speaks up. “ _Once the sun has set, no candle can replace it.”_

He seems taken aback by her words. “Is this how you think of your late husband?”

“No,” she says softly. “But I’m sure it crossed Renly’s mind briefly when my brother died.”

Realization dawns on Robb’s face and he falls silent, seemingly embarrassed over rushing to conclusions. She moves closer to him as they walk side by side.

His hand brushes against hers, twice, though she does not know if it’s intentional. She cannot read his expression. She takes the initiative to link their pinky fingers together. He takes her hand and then she intertwines their fingers. His cheeks are a faint pink when she sneaks a subtle glance at him.

“Tell me of Winterfell,” she requests of him, and so he does.

They talk and talk, of everything and nothing, their hands swinging slightly in time as they walk. She held hands with her brothers before, with her cousins and friends as they played in the gardens of her home, with her mother and father when she was a little girl. But this feels very different.


	3. Chapter 3

They are very good together in both the strangest and simplest of ways, she thinks. He quashes every preconceived notion she assumed of those from the North. He is kind and tender with her, not cold and harsh. He is more of a gentleman to her than anyone has been previously, not savage or the slightest bit brutal. When she seeks solace or a comforting word, he is always there, never ceasing to drop everything to be by her side.

It scares her somewhat, to have someone care about her the way he does, to glance up and feel his eyes on her, watching as though she is the only person that matters to him.

She wants him in many ways, as a friend and safety, but sometimes she aches for him. She thinks maybe she finally understands exactly what Renly felt for Loras.

Still, they seem to dance around each other, fingers intertwining when they are alone and subtle touches and glances when they are in view of everyone else. They never dare to move too close and try not to linger alone together for too long. But every day it gets more and more difficult, and every moment they spend together she starts to grow fonder of him.

Their daily walks now end in embraces and soft words. At the moment they are both resting on the grass in the shade of a tree. She turns over to lie on her stomach, her fingers splayed across his chest. She is thankful that he finally shed his winter cloaks and wears a loose fitting tunic under his jerkin now, and she plays with his collar. He slips an arm under her, bringing her closer and gently running his hand along her waist.

“I hope we join my other men soon. I am getting weary of all this idle waiting,” he speaks up, his voice a buzz against her cheek. “I’m prepared to join forces with Stannis and take King’s Landing, let him have the Iron Throne. I just want to-”

“Go home. I know, my wolf,” she finishes for him, a sadness overtaking her. They do not talk of what will happen between them after the war. For all she knows, she will go back to the South and her father will match her with another, and Robb will return to the North and marry his Frey.

“I’m sorry. You must be sick of hearing me say it,” he says quietly, resting his chin on top of her head. “I wish you could see Winterfell.”

“Someday, perhaps,” she suggest wistfully, bumps rising on her arms as his hand brushes over her hip.

He takes a breath, but before he can speak again, they both jump as a voice calls out to him.

“Your grace!”

They both stand up quickly, straightening their clothing and attempting not to look guilty. She blinks a few times as his squire comes running towards them, seemingly more flustered than they are. “There’s a man here. He rode from the North, and he has news for you,” he tells them.

“A man? Did you not get his name?” Robb’s nose crinkles slightly as his brow furrows.

“No, I… I’m sorry-”

“Never mind. I’ll go. If you’ll excuse me, my lady,” he says, turning to her and she gives him a small nod. He walks off, leaving her standing alone.

She realizes there must be something wrong when she returns to the castle and does not find him anywhere in plain sight. Normally he is with his men, talking or supping or planning, but there’s not a trace of him, silence in the air as she makes her way through the corridors.

When the sun goes down and she still has not seen him, she decides to pay a visit to his temporary quarters, knocking lightly on his door. “It’s Margaery,” she says.

His voice is quiet as he tells her to come in, and her eyes go wide when she sees the state he’s in. There are dark circles under his eyes and streaks on his face where she can tell he’s been crying. She shuts the door behind her. “What’s the matter?” she asks uncertainly.

He throws her a parcel of paper, a crumbled mess of a thing that he’s been holding in his fist. Her eyes ghost over the words, the blots of ink that spell out how Robb’s brothers are dead by the hand of Theon Greyjoy. She sits down next to him on his bed, letting the paper fall from her shaking hands to the ground.

“Don’t cry, please,” she urges, bringing her trembling fingers up to his tear-stained face. She expects him to turn away as Renly did when he was upset, to shove her away because it’s so much easier to be alone. Instead he nestles his cheek into her hand and looks at her with pleading eyes. She moves closer so that she’s nearly on his lap and runs a comforting hand over his spine. “Don’t cry,” she repeats, though her own eyes are filled to the brim with tears now.

“Margaery…” Her name is barely audible as he speaks it. He leans further into her touch and lets out a choked sob. “I failed them. I left them. I let Theon go.”

“No, no,” she insists. “Please, Robb, don’t-”

“I might as well have killed them. And Renly and Loras. I failed. I-”

She presses her lips to his, silencing him. The gesture is quick, consoling, nothing more. “Shhh,” she soothes, running a hand through his curls so that they aren’t falling in his eyes. He meets her gaze once more, outwardly stunned. “My sweet king, you’ve done nothing wrong. Don’t think that way.”

She’s taken aback as he kisses her, forcefully, his hand cradling the back of her head. He pulls away when she doesn’t respond, looking apologetic. She blinks a few times before she leans back in, her heart thundering against her chest.

She slides her tongue over his lips until his mouth opens beneath hers. He tastes salty and distinct, not like sweet Renly who was never keen on letting her kiss him, never wanting to make an effort with her. She climbs atop his lap easily and his hands move over the small of her back, and quickly their kisses become fervent and overwhelming.

He slips his hands over her waist until they’re tentatively cupping her breasts, and she places her own hands over his in reassurance, her nipples hardening as he caresses her with his thumbs, kissing her still. Some sort of instinct takes over when she begins to rock her hips towards his, feeling that he is hard against her thigh. He groans into her mouth and moves with her.

The friction and heat between them is too much, their clothes becoming burdensome. She pulls at his jerkin impatiently, unlacing its strings and pulling it off of him. His undershirt follows, and then her dress, which she kicks off once he pushes the straps down and it falls past her waist.

 _God s_ and _beautiful_ are the only words she can make out on his lips, but the look he gives her is more than enough to make her feel desired. His eyes grow wide and they move over her before he leans in to take one of her breasts in his mouth. Her back arches and her fingers knot in his hair as he sucks and teases her. She can feel herself growing wet between her legs, and so she detangles a hand from his hair to push his breeches down and off. He glances up at her then, and they shift together on the bed, his head meeting the blankets and furs as she hovers over him.

She lowers herself onto him, letting out a small hiss of pain as he takes her maidenhead. He holds her close and lets her breathe and decide if she wants to continue as his hands trace comforting circles over her back. She lifts herself up slightly before rolling her hips towards his once more, ignoring the discomfort. There are other things, worse things, that could hurt more.

He lets out a low moan as she moves gently and he matches her agonizingly slow rhythm, his fingers clutching at and sliding over her hipbones. She leans down to kiss him and press herself to his chest, and he breathes out her name, perhaps as a warning. She thinks he has lasted long, held on so long for her. She quickens her pace, feeling him move deeper in her, and she lets herself be overwhelmed by him, crying out as her body trembles with pleasure. He spills into her then, his body tensing and then relaxing under hers.

They both are flushed as their breathing settles. She stays where she is for a few lingering moments, relishing the feeling of him inside of her, so good and different that it is difficult for her to place. She eventually lifts herself off of him and drops to his side on the bed, staring at the ceiling as her chest rises and falls.

He doesn’t say anything, so she believes that to be her cue to leave, certain that she should just gather her clothes and go and forget. But then she feels a heavy arm sling over her waist and a warm kiss on her temple, and she calms, a smile growing on her face for the first time in a long, long while.

She turns to face Robb and kiss him slowly and deliberately, pushing one of her legs between his and moving closer to him. She isn’t sure what they should say to each other, if anything, but somehow she cannot bring herself to think of what just occurred as a mistake. She doesn’t know what love feels like, not really, but she believes that something of the sort is possible with him.

❀

She supposes they are lucky that Garlan is the one who finds them the next morning, sun pouring into the room through the windows, golden light like a halo over his head.

She blinks a few times, looking up at her brother whose mouth is ajar as he realizes that she is the woman occupying the king’s bed. Her throat goes dry and her fingers curl round Robb’s arm as he wakes beside her.

It takes Garlan just a few moments more to speak, shaking his head before he does so. “Get dressed,” he says quietly. “Willas is here.”

He takes his leave then, and she knows he will not speak of what he saw, but his words echo in her mind. Willas is here. _Willas is here._ For what reason? He cannot hope to fight for the Young Wolf; his bad leg deterred him from doing anything of the sort. She supposes if her eldest brother came all this way then it must be important and she should greet him.

She permits herself a few minutes to relish the feelings of Robb’s arms around her, kissing his lips and jaw and chest. His lips turn up and she brightens in turn, wishing that he would wear a smile always. She eventually stands from the bed, finding her dress on the ground and slipping it on.

His hand catches her wrist, and he stands before gently tugging her towards him and pressing his lips to hers again. Her lips part and she welcomes his tongue into her mouth once more. He pulls away so that he can lean in and nip softly at her earlobe.

“Marry me,” he murmurs, and her breath catches in her throat.

“You do not have to-”

“I do not have to. I want to. I want you, Margaery, only you.”

She snakes her arms around his neck and stands on tiptoe to kiss him deeply. “We’ll find a way to work something out with the Freys. My family is very good at negotiating,” she says with a smile, barely pulling away from him. “And once this is all over… we can take back Winterfell from the Ironborn men and you can go home… _We_ can go home.”

Her eyes flood with tears as he pulls her into an embrace, cradling her against his chest and kissing her until there’s no breath left in her lungs. “I need to see my brother,” she murmurs gently against his lips. He nods his head and finally lets her go, though she can feel his gaze on her as she leaves.

She sees Willas from afar, garbed in bright green and gold, and she runs towards him in her bare feet, feeling lighter than air. “My dear, handsome brother,” she greets him.

“My sweet sister.” He steps forth to engulf her in a hug, though not before giving her a somewhat bemused look when he looks her over. She should have fixed her tousled hair, straightened her dress, rubbed some tea oil on her swollen lips. “I’m so sorry for the loss of your husband,” he speaks again, pulling away He doesn’t mention Loras, but she thinks it’s better that way. Neither of them needs to be reminded of his death. “I’ve come to retrieve you and Garlan. Father wants you back in Highgarden. We have much to discuss.”

Her heart drops and she frowns. “And what of our men? Are we to deprive King Robb of the armies we let my late husband borrow? There is still a war being fought, in case you weren’t aware.”

He raises his eyebrows at her. “I’m sure the King in the North will find enough troops to back him without our help. We must withdraw until we determine where our allegiance lies now that King Renly is dead.”

 _Our allegiance lies with Robb,_ she thinks, but she doesn’t say it out loud. Instead, she nods her head. “Let me pack my things,” she says, turning around and making her way back to Robb’s room.

He’s dressed when she returns to him, and as soon as he sees her he slides his arms around her slim waist, kissing her by way of greeting. “What did your brother want?” he asks her when he pulls away, his eyes full of anticipation. Her heart sinks further still.

“He’s taking me home. Our troupes… To recuperate, I suppose,” she replies, “It shouldn’t take too long.”

“Oh.” His hope seems to wane for a small moment before he adds, “I’ll see you soon, then. When you return to me and we become husband and wife.”

She smiles softly and nods, though something inside her is screaming at her to tell him to marry the Frey girl, to forget everything that happened between them, to erase their hugs and kisses and words.

“Be safe,” he says gently, leaning in to capture her lips with his once more. “I’ll anxiously await your return, my rose.”


	4. Chapter 4

Home does not welcome her with fanfares or ribbon dancers or feasts. There are no drunken bards to sing of the loss of her brother, no comforting maidens to hand her flowers and give her sad looks, no hugs from her mother and father as they usher her into the castle.

_Highgarden has become a dark place,_ she thinks. There’s no time for happiness in the midst of war. A servant brings her some cooked turnips and wine as she sits among her family members while they discuss their future plans.

She must be cautious to tread on such ground, but she also knows subtlety will go nowhere with Mace Tyrell. 

“Why don’t we make an alliance with the Starks? I still have my innocence, Father.” She lies, the words slipping out easily. It will not matter if she can convince them to let her marry her wolf. “They would be glad to have our forces backing them. Surely Robb Stark would be a viable match.”

“He’s promised to one of Walder Frey’s daughters,” Willas speaks, furrowing his brow.

“And it wouldn’t make sense for you to wed the younger boy because he can’t have sons. You’re very capable of producing heirs, Margaery. I won’t have you wasted on him,” Mace adds, waving a dismissive hand.

“If we join with the Lannisters, King Joffrey will take you as a wife,” Willas remarks.

She realizes they mean to marry her to someone several years her junior, to one she has never met before, to the boy that killed Robb’s father. She’s to be a pawn again.

“But he’s betrothed to Sansa Stark,” she retorts. “It’s alright for you to con _him_ into being my husband but not alright when it comes to matters of Robb Stark?”

“Hush, girl! We’re only-”

She does not let her father finish. “They are a noble house, a good house! And the Young Wolf has a chance at winning this war!”

“Margaery!” Mace’s face grows red in fury, his plump cheeks ablaze. She counters with a glare of her own, her stubbornness unwavering.

“They only care about the North,” Garlan says gently, speaking for the first time and laying a heavy hand on her shoulder. “King’s Landing is far closer to our home than Winterfell. We have to keep the Reach in mind when we consider these contracts. I’m sorry, sweet sister.”

She opens her mouth and then promptly closes it, knowing that she is defeated. “Then you must promise me one thing,” she says slowly, her mind reeling. “Yield if Robb Stark tries to take King’s Landing.”

“How-”

“You must make our men yield if he comes, and I’m certain he will with his sister still trapped within its walls,” she says, her eyes pleading, her voice determined. “I’ve seen firsthand what he can do, and he _will_ win. We don’t need our bannermen and followers dying to the hand of this man for no reason. We’ll wave our white flags if he comes and let the Lannisters and Gold Cloaks deal with him. Please, Father. If you cannot take my advice on such a matter then at least grant me a wedding present of surrender.”

Mace gives a sigh and he shakes his head, his eyes dropping to the floor. “Fine, but only if he attacks,” he relents, “if Stannis is by himself then we will go through with this as planned.”

She nods in consent, taking her leave and making her way outside.

She goes to the gardens, picks tansy, wormwood, and permroyal. She mixes them into her tea when her servants bring her a cup before she goes to sleep. She swirls the contents of the glass round and round, watching as the light from the candle on her bedside table as it reflects off of the liquid.

She dumps the tea out of her window, never taking a sip.

❀

The journey to King’s Landing is faster than she wishes for it to be with eager men ready to fight and little time to stop and sleep along the way. They leave behind Willas and her mother and grandmother so that they can reach the Red Keep quickly.

They are welcomed in the Great Hall, her future king sitting higher than them on the famed Iron Throne, nonchalantly taking in the scene before him. He is young and arrogant, that much she can see. Even his handsome face cannot disguise that.

Out of the corner of her eye she can see Sansa Stark, her hair red like her brother’s, the girl’s face growing more and more nervous with each passing minute, with each word Mace says.

She does not speak until her father mentions her. “…my daughter, Margaery.” She knows that is her cue, and she steps forward.

“I’ve come to love you from afar.” The words are like bile in her mouth, and she can feel her stomach churn. But all she does is force a sweet smile as Joffrey stares at her, the corners of his mouth turning up in a smirk.

It seems as though the agreement is done then as his fingers curl around the armrests of the throne and he leans forward, his eyes trailing over her chest. “And when will we be married?”

“Sooner rather than later, your grace,” her father speaks up. “There is talk of your uncle and the Young Wolf allying to attack King’s Landing, and we might wish to seal this deal before preparations for war.”

“ _No,”_ she wants to scream. She clasps her hands behind her back so no one sees them trembling with rage. She looks towards Garlan, raising her eyebrows at him, but his gaze immediately drops to the floor. _No!_ They can’t… They were supposed to give themselves time to get to know the people at court, time for Robb to get there before she was married to another.

She knows her father’s intent is to have her give Joffrey an heir before he’s killed in the war. She’s sure there’s no grander idea in his head than that of his grandchild sitting on the Iron Throne.

“Of course you are a king, and so the ceremony will be impressive as expected,” Mace continues, “but we needn’t make so many arrangements.”

Joffrey nods his head, all of his white teeth showing when he grins. She thinks of Robb’s smile so she can produce one of her own.

“Three days’ time should suffice, right, Mother?”

Cersei seems lost in thought when she’s addressed, though she raises her eyebrows before nodding her head, agreeing with her son. Robb Stark still holds her brother captive. No doubt she wants the armies of the Reach to get him back.

Joffrey seems pleased with her approval. “The men can set up camp outside the keep, but I would not want my bride to stay in a tent until our wedding. Lady Margaery, you may say your goodbyes and a servant will show you to your temporary chambers.”

“Thank you, your grace,” she says softly, giving a small curtsy. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see her father already making for the doors of the Great Hall, Garlan and the other men following not far behind him. She keeps a calm demeanor as she trails after them, trying not to be too obvious as she pushes through the crowd to get to them. Once they are out in the corridor, she fights her way to the front, her heart racing, her brow furrowed in determination.

“How _dare_ you,” she hisses, reaching for any loose fabric or skin on her father. She clutches his arm and forcefully spins him around, her eyes filled with tears. “You told me-”

“I know what I told you, my child, but we can’t lose this war just because of your infatuation with one man,” Mace remarks softly. “Joffrey seems agreeable enough.”

He turns his back and walks away, and she has half a mind to strike him as hard as she can. All she can do is reach for her brother next, her tone pleading. “Make our armies yield if he comes,” she says in a whisper. “Promise me, Garlan. I can’t lose him. I can’t-”

She isn’t sure if she imagines his subtle nod as the doors to the Red Keep, separating them.

She walks back to the Great Hall with heavy feet so that she can be shown to her quarters.

❀

The next three days pass in a blur. She’s measured by seamstresses and scrubbed down in the tub until she’s red and raw every night. She stays in her bed in the dark when everyone leaves her finally, and her body curls around her pillows. She thinks of Robb and how he held her, and she falls asleep in his imaginary warmth.

Her second marriage takes place on a cloudy day, rain beating down on her window when her handmaidens come to dress her in an ivory gown with a lace bodice and flowing sleeves. She fastens a necklace with a spiraling charm around her neck, tucking it beneath the fabric of her dress and sweeping her hair over her shoulders.

She is thankful that she already went through all of this with Renly, walking towards a man she does not truly know at the alter in the sept, reciting the vows she memorized not so long ago.

Joffrey kisses her with ferocity, his hands on her small waist, his thumbs digging into her hipbones. When he pulls away, she wishes to wipe her mouth, but she forces a smile instead, gently taking his hand. He leads her to the Great Hall, decorated in gold and crimson. _Like blood,_ she thinks. _It’s wrong, all wrong._

She doesn’t touch the food on her plate though it all looks appetizing. When asked why she is not eating, she merely jests that she is nervous about the bedding. Garlan catches her eye, and the look he gives her only makes her feel worse. She dances only when asked with grace that is a miracle of some sort, letting others lead her.

From across the room she feels Joffrey watching her, his eyelids heavy and drooping. She permits herself a smile as several members of the kingsguard rush forward to check on him. Ser Boras chuckles as he holds up the king’s cup. “Empty!” he shouts, causing the hall to erupt in laughter. “Let’s hope you didn’t drink too much to stunt your performance tonight, your grace.”

The room swells with noise again, and suddenly she’s swallowed by a swarm of men, ushering her towards the door. She briefly catches a glimpse of giggling women helping her husband out of his seat.

As greedy hands undress her, she closes her eyes and thinks of snow falling, of little red-headed boys climbing on stone walls, of wolves howling at the moon, of blue roses sprouting up out of the earth.

“Pretty girl. Gorgeous girl. The king is lucky indeed. I’d give half my riches to fuck someone like you.” She opens her eyes to a smiling face, a stranger with dark eyes and greying hair.

“Thank you,” she replies gently, covering her breasts with her hands.

“Polite too. Oh, he will have his fun with you tonight.”

“Hopefully this one can put a son in her. His uncle wasn’t so lucky.” Another man speaks, this one with golden hair, a Lannister most likely.

“Well what can you expect from a man leading round an army of girls in rainbow cloaks?”

There’s a large bout of laughter among those in the corridor. She wants to speak up for Loras, but she bites her tongue.

A man’s hand goes for the necklace around her throat, the only item left on her body, but she brings her hand up quickly to stop him, shaking her head.

“Please, ser, I’d like to leave that on. It was a wedding gift from my grandmother,” she lies easily.

“I suppose I can grant that request. Now go on, get in there your highness.” His big, meaty hand slaps her bare ass cheek, sending her in the direction of the king’s quarters. “You’ve got a man waiting for you, and a great deal out here waiting to hear how things go.”

Joffrey is slouched over on the bed, his fat pink lips open, drool dripping from his mouth. She calmly takes a seat in the armchair near him, twisting her fingers round the small charm at her neck. He looks dead, but he’s not. She learned from the septas in Highgarden how to mix poppy milk strong enough to keep a man asleep for days, but she slipped enough into his drink during the feast to detain him for just a night.

She makes herself comfortable on the chair next to his bed, spreading her legs to either side and sliding her hand below her stomach. A whimper escapes from her lips as she begins to pleasure herself. She does not say her husband’s name, never his name. It’s far easier to imagine Robb’s hands on her when she’s thinking only of her wolf.

Once Joffrey tries to reach for her, but she swats his hand away, prompting a grunt from the boy. _Good,_ she thinks. _You should be making some noise too._ She pushes his head slightly with her free hand, and as it lulls back he lets out a groan.

She closes her eyes again and works two fingers into her entrance, crying out when she thinks of Robb biting at her lip. She finishes then, her breathing ragged as she removes her hand. She can hear the cheers of those who stood outside the door to listen and her stomach turns slightly as she dares to lift her eyelids and look at the sight of the unconscious king. After regaining her composure, she stands and makes her way towards the other side of the bed.

She unscrews the top off of the vial she wears around her neck, the one they had let her keep under the guise that it was jewelry. She empties its contents on the bed next to her husband. If her performance doesn’t convince them, the dark red stains on the sheet certainly will. It’s chicken blood, but no one will know the difference.

She could’ve put poison in the vial. She could’ve put poison in Joffrey’s cup. She knows all the right ingredients to combine to make a lethal drink. But no. That would be too soon, too suspicious. She does not even know if she could commit such a murder.

She dresses again, finding a large overshirt and some breeches of the king’s in the wardrobe across the room from his bed. She waits until the sun peaks over the city, watching the window as night turns to day.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your kind feedback so far. Please feel free to leave any comments on this chapter if you have the time!

A month passes in which Margaery does all she can to avoid her husband. She is grateful he does not try to take her to his bed again and that she can somewhat qualm his suspicions by feigning sickness or seeking refuge outside the castle walls, gaining the favour of the smallfolk.

Her moonblood does not come, and she panics. She can pretend that Joffrey gave her a child, but in nine months’ time if it is born with auburn hair then both she and her baby are dead.

She decides to appease him one day by attending a tourney thrown as a late wedding present. Knights come from all corners of the seven kingdoms to measure King’s Landing’s strength and see if they should support their rulers under the guise of a friendly competition.

She had seen Loras best many a knight before in Highgarden, but here they seem to take their tourneys more seriously, or perhaps Joffrey’s lust for blood only promotes violence. She watches a man get thrown from his horse, his leg twisted behind his back making him look like a rag doll.

The king throws his head back and laughs, clapping his hands together. “Well struck!” he yells before settling back in his chair and turning to face her, the smile fading from his face. “Does this not please you, my wife?” he asks, narrowing her eyes at her.

“I pray you forgive me, your grace,” she answers quietly. “I have been feeling out of sorts as of late.” The words she speaks are true. She had been experiencing headaches and had gotten sick several times over the past few days.

“You mean you have been feeling out of sorts since our wedding night,” he amends, his tone laced with a sort of calm fury that scares her more than anything else. Her stomach gives a lurch, and she stands as Joffrey’s eyes widen in alarm.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he yells, rising to his feet as well.

“Please, your grace, I must… I am ill.” She turns away from him, quickly making her way away from the tourney grounds. At the nearest remote spot, she finds a bush and empties the contents of her stomach into it, her breathing shallow. She catches her breath, wrapping her arms around her body and sinking to her knees to press her hot forehead to the cold earth.

“This is not a very dignified position for people to find you in, your grace,” she hears a voice speak up, and she lifts her head as Tyrion Lannister’s face swims into view.

“Tourneys don’t normally make me sick,” she says to him.

“Perhaps it’s the king, then,” he suggests with a laugh. He shakes his head and offers her a hand to help her up. She takes it as well as the hanky he then gives her so she can wipe the corners of her mouth.

“Thank you,” she remarks. She thinks it unwise to give the piece of material back to him after using it. Instead, she holds it close to her side. She does not understand his kind gesture, but she decides that any sort of help granted to her should be taken with little resistance.

Tyrion coughs before he speaks again. “If you are with child you should tell my nephew. He’ll not hurt you if he knows his son or daughter is in your belly.”

_Ah, so there it is. The true reason why he’s offering her his sympathies._ She had always been told that the Imp was the cleverest of the Lannisters, but perhaps she did not realize he would be so attune.

When she does not reply straight away, his eyebrows shoot up. “You don’t mean to harm the child, do you?” he asks.

“Never,” she snaps quickly, placing her hands protectively over her stomach. _Never my sweet Eddard or Lyanna._ “You are not a stupid man, my lord. It must be as clear as day that I hold no affections for the king. But a child of ours cannot be punished for the nature of his father…” The lie that spills from her mouth is simple enough, but with each word she feels as though she’s digging the hole for her own grave. “And besides that, it is good to know that not all Lannister blood is bad blood,” she adds.

Tyrion gives a weak smile. “Why don’t you go back to your chambers and get some rest, your grace? I will let Joffrey know that you are ill.”

She nods and retreats to her quarters.

❀

_She stands beneath a massive tree with red leaves, a face carved into the white trunk. She wears a dress to match its bark, laced with grey. It’s snowing but she’s not cold, and she laughs as she swings around the weirwood until she sees another figure has joined her._

_“You can’t tell lies under a heart tree.” He wears a toothy grin and bears a crimson and gold cloak, but instead of thread it is woven with chains._

_“Then I cannot marry you,” she counters, “for how can I pledge my love for a monster in the presence of gods?”_

_He makes to strike her, and she squeezes her eyes shut, but when she feels no blow, she opens them once more and there is another man standing before her. He offers her a large, calloused hand, and she takes it. He helps her to her feet, his smile warm and loving._

_“You returned to me, my Robb,” she whispers, and he engulfs her in an embrace._

_“I never left you, my Margaery.”_

_She allows herself to close her eyes once more, feeling safe. When she opens them she is standing in a room with stone walls and flickering candlelight, Robb’s back in view. He turns around, a bundle in his arms that he rocks back and forth. “Shh, sweetling, your mother is here now,” he murmurs, passing her a curly-haired, beautiful baby._

_She feels tears run down her cheeks at the sight of their child, and she looks up at Robb, her lips turning up in a grin. He brings his hand up to cup her jaw and wipe her tears, and she blinks._

It’s all gone, her heart giving a small leap in her chest when she opens her eyes and she’s back in her room in the Red Keep, never having left her bed at all.

❀

Sansa Stark is a quiet girl, always cautious of speaking even with the hustle and bustle of people around her, but Margaery finds she warms to kind and gentle words. It takes time to break through the other woman’s shell, but she does so eventually, and surprisingly takes more comfort in a friend than she ever would have believed possible.

They walk arm and arm through the godswood on a sunny day, talking of their homes and their hopes.

“I remember seeing your brother ride during the tourney,” Sansa remarks with a sad smile, “he gave me a red rose. I am so sorry you lost him, Margaery. He was brave and handsome – a true knight.”

She returns her friend’s smile, shaking her head slightly. All of the girls that met Loras were always mad for him, but none of them truly knew him. “He was,” she agreed, pausing before speaking again. “I am fortunate you even wish to talk to me, sweetling. After all, my family came here to side with the Lannisters against your brother. But you also know what it’s like to pretend, to feign happiness and love and grace when you wish to be anything otherwise. I can see it in your eyes when you look at Joffrey and his mother.”

“My lady, please, I-”

She stops the girl before she can speak any more. “You don’t need to put on an act with me, you know. I want your brother to come here and save you, save _us._ I tried my best to convince my father to side with your family and let me marry Robb. I did not want this life here. But I am grateful for you, at least.”

Sansa looks at her with wide eyes. “You would be a good wife to him,” she says softly before letting out a laugh. “Oh, I think he would love you, actually.”

She is surprised when tears sting at her eyes. “Can I tell you a secret, dear Sansa?” she asks, curling her fingers around her arm. “I met Robb. He came to negotiate with my late husband at our camp, and we… He is a good man. In fact, I don’t believe that’s saying enough. He’s remarkable, and his heart is kind and just. I am in love with him.” It is strange to admit to someone else aloud let alone herself. She smiles as a few tears roll down her cheeks and she does not bother to wipe them away.

Sansa gives a small gasp before pursing her lips together, a mixture of fear and excitement on her pretty face. “Does he know? That is a silly question, I’m sorry. I hope he comes here as well, not just for my sake but for yours now as well,” the girl says in a rush.

“There’s no need to apologize,” she replies. “I never got the chance to tell him, but… he asked me to marry him. I pray that I will get the chance to be his wife and make him happy and love him every moment of every day.”

“It sounds as if you truly do love him.” Sansa smiles softly, her eyes bright. “I would have never expected… Forgive me, my lady, but I would not imagine someone like you harboring such affections for my brother. He’s so very different from you.”

Margaery reaches for Sansa’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “Someday in your life you will meet someone who is different from you in all the right ways – someone who compliments you and makes up for your weaknesses and gives you reasons to smile and be the best person you can possibly be and live. That is who Robb is for me.”

“I do hope so, my lady,” the young woman replies, her face falling slightly.

“I _know_ so, sweetling,” Margaery remarks determinedly. “If I can find love then you can.”

❀

When she makes to return to her room later on in the day, there is still a genuine smile on her face, her heart filled with more hope than she had felt in a long time. She is only reassured that Robb will make an alliance with Stannis and come for her and Sansa and seek justice for his father’s murder.

She rounds the corner leading to her chambers and is suddenly knocked off her feet from a force of some sort colliding with the side of her head. She brings a trembling hand up to her ear as she feels blood trickling down the side of her face, and she can hear nothing but a buzz, her vision blurry as she tries to look up and see what hit her. She is dizzy for a few moments before a few figures swim into view, but she can only make out some of their words as she recovers from the knock to her head.

“Robb Stark… save you?” she hears first as she shakily stands to her feet, a blur of gold and red standing before her. She blinks a few times and Joffrey appears before her as well as a man dressed in Kingsguard armor.

“Your grace…” Her voice sounds strange, deep and hollow.

“I should kill you,” he hisses, hatred in his eyes. The member of the Kingsguard kicks her in the back and she keels over, letting out a whimper.

“Please, your grace, you need my family’s armies,” she pleads, her mind so foggy that she can barely make sense of what she’s saying.

“I could kill you. How long would it take for them to start missing their little girl, wondering where she is? Did you think I wouldn’t hear your conversation with the Stark girl? Did you think I would have reason enough to trust you with a traitor’s daughter?” he questions, and she lets out a shriek as she’s pulled upwards by her hair and receives a hit to her side, knocking the wind out of her.

“ _No, no!”_ she thinks, “ _not my baby, don’t hurt my baby.”_

“Stop!” she yells finally, holding her hands up, Ser Meryn’s blows meeting her arms instead of her body. “I am with child, your grace! You gave me a child.”

Joffrey looks stunned, his mouth dropping open in shock. He quickly regains his composure, standing tall and furrowing his brow. “When?”

“Our wedding night, your grace,” she lies, her voice stoic. “You were very drunk, but that did not deter your performance, for you have given me a baby boy or girl.”

He takes a few minutes to process her words before he breaks into a grin, letting out a small laugh. “Do you hear that? I put a child in her,” he announces, as if he has accomplished something that most men could never hope to in their lifetime. “A Baratheon heir will be born before my sixteenth name day.” He glances over her, the smirk on his face making her stomach churn. “Shall I write to your wolf and tell him of our good news? If my men aren’t enough to best his strength then perhaps I can aid in crushing his spirit.”

She glares at him, her jaw set. “I think that would be unwise, your grace.”

“And why’s that?” he asks, spit flying from his mouth, his whole face scrunching in anger.

“You should keep me hidden away until I give birth. You should keep this a secret. The smallfolk like me well enough, but if anyone else were to find out that I am carrying your heir… They will not like it. They will not want this baby to be born.”

He purses his fat lips, giving her a look of disdain. “Assign someone to watch her chambers at all times,” he tells Ser Meryn, resigning to the truth in what she said. She breathes a sigh of relief. “And try not to rough her up too much. She may be the scum of the earth, but I won’t have my son harmed.” He spits at her feet as she clutches to the wall beside her and rises on shaky legs.

“Thank you, your grace,” she says, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Your mercy will not go unnoticed by the gods.”

He beckons for his men to leave with him, not sparing her a second glace. She holds a hand up to her left ear and snaps twice but hears nothing. She walks to her bed and collapses, shaking with tears.


	6. Chapter 6

She eats if for no other reason than to keep her baby alive, her stomach growing with each passing day. It’s easy to hide under flowing dresses and shifts, but she still does not leave her rooms often for fear of Joffrey’s wrath. Sometimes she sits alone, running her hand over her belly and singing softly, making up words to the melodies of songs she heard when she was younger. She sings to her unborn child of Robb and all she knows about Winterfell, of hope and how much their mother and father will love them when they arrive.

Sansa is allowed to visit her every so often, a mercy she is incredibly grateful for. They share stories of their time before the war, of their families and friends.

On this particular evening, however, they are interrupted by a swell of noise and unrest. It starts with a single yell outside her window which turns to several. There’s the sound of thundering footsteps and screams, and then the warning bells from the sept begin to ring.

She realizes the day she has been waiting and praying and hoping for has finally come.

Her eyes turn to her friend, and she swallows the lump in her throat. If Robb is here, Joffrey’s men will take Sansa captive. They’ll hold her hostage and use her for ransom.

“Sansa, hide!” she hisses, standing and practically shoving the other girl under her bed.

“Margaery-”

“Stay here. Wait here until I come back for you,” she commands her, raising her eyebrows. “Promise me, Sansa.”

The younger girl looks hesitant but nods her head anyway, crawling beneath the bed and into the shadows.

Two men from the Kingsguard burst into her room only seconds later, their breathing ragged, sweat glistening on their foreheads.

“The king gave us orders to get you to a safe place,” Ser Mandon tells her, grabbing hold of her arm and swiveling round to exit the way he came.

Ser Meryn joins them, and her hand moves protectively to her stomach as she shoots him a glare. “Who is attacking?” she asks, silently praying that it’s Robb. _Robb with Stannis._

“We don’t know,” he replies, “there are-” She gives a shriek as he crumples to the ground beside her, never finishing his sentence.

Her head whips around, and she meets the gaze of a man with a teal sigil emblazoned on his armor who is lowering his bow. He tosses it to the side and reaches for the pommel of his sword to advance on them. Ser Mandon drops her arm and spins on his heel, moving towards the mustached man.

She doesn’t hesitate in rushing forward then, lifting her skirts to run down the corridor and away from the Kingsguard and the fighting. She wracks her brain, trying to remember which house had a sigil of a merman holding a trident. _Manderly. House Manderly of White Harbor, sworn to House Stark._ Her face lights up, and she finally allows herself to smile.  _Robb. Robb is here._

When she turns the corner, she’s met with the sight of several fallen bodies. Her stomach lurches as she sidesteps a pool of blood leaking from head of a Lannister man, his crimson encrusted helmet lying beside him. She bends to loot through his belt, extracting a dagger and carefully slipping it into her pocket.

She hears the soldiers shouting of Renly’s Ghost and she knows it must be her brother wearing her late husband’s armor, but she doesn’t follow the voices, knowing she should find a place to hide.

Before she can make it very far, however, she feels arms encircle her waist and the bulge of something against her backside. “Fuck me, your majesty,” she hears, a raspy whisper in her ear. The man’s breath is hot on her neck and he reeks of gin, the smell making her dizzy as he laughs. “Come, it’s my last night on earth. Let a poor man have his fun before he dies.”

“Get _off_ of me,” she breathes, elbowing him in the ribs, but he only clutches her tighter as she tries to break free from his hold.

“Things will be easier for you if you don’t struggle, your grace,” he remarks, his nails digging into her arm.

She stays still for a moment and then attempts to run away from him again as he pulls at her dress. The fabric rips across her stomach and she screams, hoping someone will hear her and come to her aid. All around her are dead bodies, no one to rise up and kill the other man, the man who is holding her wrist and fighting to pin her to the ground and push her skirts up. She kicks and yells and makes to grab the dagger from her pocket, but he’s too strong, holding her arms down and hovering over her with a vacant smile on his face. “Please,” she begins to beg, tears falling from her eyes, “please don’t do this-”

He shoves his other hand into his breeches, and she closes her eyes, still trying with all her might to knock him off of her.

She hears the wiz of an arrow and feels the sudden weight of the man collapsing on her. For a few seconds she contemplates just staying there, pretending she’s dead until the battle is over, but then she thinks she could be trampled or hurt if she doesn’t run. She rolls out from under the corpse and stands, her breathing shallow as she searches for the person who saved her.

Her eyes fall on him a ways down the corridor, his distinctive red curls, his blue eyes, his mouth ajar when he sees her. Her bottom lip trembles, and she isn’t sure if she should let herself believe it’s him. His arm goes limp, his bow dropping at his side as he stands there, frozen.

There are cries of more men rushing down the side hallway towards him, but he still doesn’t look away from her. His gaze falls on her ripped dress, the tear revealing the small swell of her belly.

“ _Yours,”_ she mouths distinctively to him, and she watches a sort of fire overtake him as a man advances on him and he draws his sword, cutting through him to get to her.

Three men fall under his blade as he rushes forward, the castle going silent once more when he reaches her.

He pulls her into a bone-crushing hug, his hands bunching at the fabric on her back. She lets out a small gasp, seizing up and then relaxing as her mind finally processes that he’s real. She wraps her arms around him tightly before pulling back slightly to kiss him, her mouth opening under his.

He responds with enthusiasm, drawing her so close that her back arches under his touch as he nearly lifts her off her feet. She laughs into his mouth and he does the same as he pulls back, his nose nuzzling into her cheek.

“The men, they’re dropping, kneeling-” he whispers.

“My father’s men. I told them to yield should you come. And you did. You did, Robb.”

“I did.” It seems to be the only thing he can say, his eyes filling with tears as they roam over her stomach.

“I did not let him touch me, I promise,” she says. “I could think only of you. I love you. I-”

He does not let her finish as he presses his lips to hers again, and she stands on tiptoe to deepen their kiss. “I love you,” he breathes as he pulls away.

She does not know why his eyes widen then, why in one moment he is the happiest she’s ever seen him and the next his expression grows fierce as his hands go to his belt… not until she feels steel at her stomach and an arm wrench her back.

“Surrender or I’ll gut the bitch and kill your child as well,” Joffrey hisses, his fingers pressing into her arm. Robb’s eyes are filled with fury, his knuckles growing white as he clutches the hilt of his sword, but he does not advance.

“Thought you could fool me?” the king asks her, his voice cracking, “I know everything now… how you tricked me into thinking I bedded you by getting me drunk, how you’re carrying that traitor’s _bastard.”_ Robb leans forward, and she feels the sharp blade of Joffrey’s sword and warm blood trickle down her belly where it cuts at her skin. She lets out a small whimper, terrified that he will harm her unborn baby.

“Make one move, a single move, and I’ll do it. And then I’ll kill you too,” Joffrey spits, tightening his grip on her as Robb holds his hands up in cautious surrender. She slowly slips a shaking hand into her pocket, her fingers running over the wooden handle of the dagger while her captor is distracted.

“Bow to me,” Joffrey demands, letting out a small laugh and watching on in delight as his enemy takes to the knee. “Look at your king now,” he taunts her. “Pathetic. I bet his father is turning in his grave right now. I never thought I’d have the pleasure of taking the lives of two Sta-” He is cut off as she swiftly pulls the dagger from its hiding place and jams it into him, twisting the blade into his chest. He keels over in pain, losing his hold on her, and she uses the opportunity to break from him, blood seeping over her fingers as she withdraws her hand. He lets out a gasping breath, wheezing once or twice before falling to the ground, red froth spilling forth from his mouth.

Her jaw trembles as she steps back, dropping the dagger and letting out a choked sob. Joffrey goes still, his wide eyes open and staring and lifeless. She dissolves into tears then, sinking to her knees and covering her face with her hands, not caring about the blood on her fingers.

Soon she feels strong arms wrap around her, and she slips her own arms around Robb, letting herself cry.

“It’s over, my love,” he murmurs, kissing her cheek.

❀

_It is over_.

The Lannister survivors are taken captive, and Stannis assumes his right to the throne. She watches Sansa and Robb reunite, tears streaming from the former’s eyes as she thanks her brother for saving her. She finds Garlan alive and well, and she peppers his weary face with kisses, making him smile again.

There is little festivity that night, most everyone wishing to rest as a ways of celebration. She takes her supper with Robb and Sansa in her solar. Her friend eventually retires to bed, a genuine smile on her face for the first time in a long while, and she is left alone with Robb.

“Stay here?” she asks quietly, speaking again so that he cannot protest, even if he wants to. “Grey Wind can guard our door. And besides that, I don’t care if people talk, if people know I spent the night with you.”

“You cannot wait until we are married?” Robb teases, bringing a hand up to cup her face.

“Days and months are confused easily in times of war,” she says, “I do not think it will matter much if this baby is born six or seven moons after we are wed.”

He nods his head, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her lips.

They undress and crawl into bed, and being with him a second time is even better than the first, nothing impetuous or melancholy between them this time. He’s gentle and slow and touches her, making her cry out his name, making her body tremble under his. She loves the noises that spill from his mouth, loves how he fills her, loves how he lingers inside of her for a few moments when they are finished.

After, he rests his head on her breast and splays his fingers across her swollen stomach.

“Margaery…” His voice is a soft whisper against her skin, and she can feel his lips turn up into a smile.

“Yes, sweetheart?” she answers, playing with his curls before gently massaging his scalp.

“We made a baby together. I’m to be a father… and husband. And you’re to be a mother and my wife,” he murmurs as if he can scarcely believe it, and her heart beats faster at his words.

She gives a small laugh, kissing the top of his head. “You should get some sleep, my love,” she suggests, but all he does is nestle closer to her.

“I could go the rest of my years without sleep if it meant being this close to you always.” He pulls back to look her in the eyes, and his gaze is so intense that her own eyes fill with tears.

She leans in to capture his lips again, overwhelmed by his love. It all still feels like a dream to her; nothing has quite set in.  _The war is over, she’s in the arms of the man she loves, they are to go reclaim Winterfell together and start a family._ She continues to remind herself of these things.

He falls asleep with his face buried in her neck and his arms around her, one of his hands still resting on her stomach. She stays awake long enough to hear the soft, calming sound of his breathing, and she presses a kiss to his temple before she drifts off.

 


End file.
